


Kitchen

by cowboykylux



Category: Marriage Story (Noah Baumbach)
Genre: Angst, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 09:57:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20374882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboykylux/pseuds/cowboykylux
Summary: You didn’t know how they stood it, all the yelling. Didn’t know how they stood the slamming doors and bitter, seething remarks.You wondered if they knew, that you knew. That the whole neighborhood knew.Divorce.





	Kitchen

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is another re-post of a fic I published over on my tumblr account, I thought I'd like to share it here <3 
> 
> I know we have no idea anything about his character yet, but I really just had to get something out of my system for Charlie with the release of the new trailers for Marriage Story. Please enjoy this angst! <3

You didn’t know how they stood it, all the yelling. Didn’t know how they stood the slamming doors and bitter, seething remarks.

You wondered if they knew, that you knew. That the whole neighborhood knew.

Divorce. Nasty divorce. It was always nasty when there was a kid to think about, especially one old enough to know, old enough to remember. People tended to say the worst things in court, when they were trying to keep their kid. You hoped they didn’t say things against one another. You hoped, but you weren’t sure.

The phone rang, snapping you out of your thoughts, and you grabbed it off the counter, picked it up.

“Hello?” You asked, recognizing the number as his, as Charlie’s.

“(Y/N)?” The man asked, out of breath and with a wet tick in his throat.

“Yes? Is everything okay?” You sat up a little straighter.

“Could you – can Henry come over for a little while?” He asked, and your heart leapt in your throat.

“Of course. Charlie is everything okay?” You asked again.

He was always so concerned about everyone else, you thought. When was the last time someone asked him about him?

“No, it’s not. But I don’t want him in the house right now, not when – me and Nicole, we’re – ” Charlie tried to get the words out, he tried, but you could already hear the wobble in his voice.

“I know. Of course he can come over, I’m home right now.” You cut him off, gave him a break from trying to voice the million things that were going on in his head.

“Thank you.” He sighed into the phone, hung up.

You put the phone down, set the kettle on the stove. And then you waited.

You had lived next to Charlie and Nicole for three years now, and you’d been their prime babysitter ever since. Henry was an easy kid to babysit, you thought. He liked reading, liked watching movies. He liked putting together puzzles and filling in coloring books – but his favorite thing was to paint.

You left the kitchen and took out some paints and canvases from the closet in the hall.

The door knocked as the kettle whistled. Quickly pouring a cup of tea and sticking a tea-bag in it, you answered the door.

“Hi (Y/N)!” Henry wrapped his arms around your middle, squeezed you with excitement.

“Hi Henry. I put some stuff out in the living room, I thought we could paint together today.” You gave him a warm smile, ruffled his hair.

He bounded into the house, shoes on and all, nothing but bright happiness. You were glad, to see the smile on his face.

The smile that was absent from Charlie’s.

“Come inside?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart thudded in your chest, in your throat. A fast beat that had you anxious, had you stuck. You were both so stuck, weren’t you?

“I can’t.” Charlie whispered back, but his eyes held pain, held a yearning, to step over the threshold and lock the door behind him. 

He reached out for your hand, hooked his pinky around yours. 

“Come inside anyway?” You prompted, wanting to give him permission. He always needed permission, these days.

“Okay.” He nodded, and stepped inside.

“I made tea, please have some. It’ll make you feel better.” You smiled, handed him the cup in your grasp.

Your dishes always looked so small compared to him, compared to his massive frame. It was a wonder how he managed to look so soft, wrapped up in sweaters and coats and cardigans. His hands curled around the cup.

“I can’t stay long.” Charlie gave you that mournful look again.

“I know. Just one cup?” You asked, and he sighed, relieved, like he had been holding his breath.

“Thank you.” He whispered, like it was some secret, like his gratitude was something to hide.

And it was.

* * *

“Do you know why my parents fight all the time?” Henry asked much later, after Charlie had gone and his teacup was in the sink, a ring stained on the bottom that you’d deal with later.

“No, I’m sorry.” You replied.

It was a lie, you knew it was a lie, but you couldn’t say that. You didn’t even know if it was real, if it was anything beyond a figment of your imagination. You didn’t know, so you couldn’t say.

You didn’t like lying to Henry.

“I wish they didn’t, it gives me headaches sometimes.” He was concentrating on his painting, presumably of you.

Sometimes he asked you to sit in his favorite chair, and he would paint your portrait. Sometimes he would ask you to sit in the chair, but he would only paint a part of you – sometimes it was just the chair, other times it was just your nose. He was a great artist, and you were happy for the surprise of what it was going to be this time.

“I wish they didn’t either.” You replied, resisting the urge not to pick your fingernails.

“Your kitchen is blue.” Henry said, apropos of nothing in that way that kids do, where they haven’t yet learned about having a filter, not that Henry needed one.

“Yeah it is, I painted it that color.” You said with a smile, remembering how Charlie had helped you cover the electrical outlets in painters tape, how he had helped carry the gallons of paint from your car when he saw you struggling with the weight of them.

“How come?” He asked, squinting and looking very much like he was taking this particular portrait seriously.

“Because I like blue.” You replied simply.

“Do you paint your kitchen a lot?” He asked with a bit of a giggle, putting down one brush on top of the newspaper spread, and picking up a new clean one.

“Only when I’m bored of the color.” You said, having a bit of a giggle back.

“But you’re not bored of blue?” He asked, and you shook your head.

“Nope, not yet.” You wondered what his fixation on that was.

“Dad likes to wear blue.” Henry said, and suddenly you knew.

It felt like time stood still, felt like you were glued to your chair, glued to the spot.

You wondered if Henry knew, wondered and wondered and wondered.

“Does he?” You managed to croak out, tried your best not to let your voice shake.

“Yeah, sometimes he wears red, or white. But it’s mostly blue.” Henry said this like it was the weather, and maybe to him it was.

Maybe it was.

“What colors do you like?” You asked, wanting to shift the conversation away from Charlie, unable to handle that, not right now. Not right now.

“I like all of them.” Henry said happily, and that was evident by the choice of the paints he chose, wasn’t it?

How he was practically covered in reds and yellows and oranges, hands all spotty with blues and greens. You were glad to have had the foresight to give him a special painting shirt, so he wouldn’t go and ruin his nice clothes.

“There isn’t one you’d like more than all the others?” You asked, and he hummed in deep thought for a while.

“Green – if I could, I’d paint my kitchen green.” Henry said, and you nodded. Green was a good color, you thought.

* * *

You didn’t speak for a while, the both of you lost in your own thoughts. Henry was busy painting, he always took a long time, always wanted to get good detail. He worked so hard, this kid, and you always made a big deal about the paintings even when they weren’t very good, even when they were just stick figures drawn in different colors. But Henry didn’t do stick figures anymore, he had graduated to real shapes.

The proportions were never there, but he was a kid, so they didn’t have to be. What was important was that he was having fun. You didn’t think his parents let him paint at their house, probably because it was too messy, which was fair.

Your house was already a bit of a mess, so you didn’t mind too much.

Nicole seemed like the kind of mother who would mind.

You tried not to think about her.

“(Y/N)?” Henry asked, putting his paintbrush down and looking at you.

“Yeah Henry?” You asked, excited to see what new masterpiece he had created.

“Do you think when dad moves out, he’ll paint his kitchen blue?” He asked instead, making your chest just about shatter.

For some reason, you had never considered the possibility of Charlie…moving.

“I don’t know.” You said, voice almost a whisper, caught so off-guard you didn’t know what to do, what to say.

“I like painting.” Henry said, moving on. Maybe he didn’t know either.

“I’m glad, you’re very good at it. Is that piece finished?” You powered through a smile, getting up from your chair and walking over to the spot where Henry had been attacking the canvas.

“Yup! What do you think?” He asked, pride clear all over his face.

It was one of all of you this time, the whole of you, sitting on the chair. Your head and feet just barely made it in frame, and he had drawn you with two left hands, but it was you. You pushed down tears, it wouldn’t do to cry now, not now. Not in front of Henry.

“Hmm, I think it’s the most amazing painting I’ve ever seen! But who could have painted it I wonder?” You asked, picking up the canvas and holding it up to your face, careful not to smear any of the acrylic paint that was still wet.

“Me! I did!” Henry laughed, jumped up and down and reached for the canvas.

“No no no, there’s no signature on the painting, how will the museums ever find out who they should thank for such a masterpiece?” You turned the painting upside down, then right-side up, and then handed it to him.

He quickly grabbed a brush and dipped it into black paint, concentrated very hard as he signed his name.

“There!” He said happily, pointing at it, “H-e-n-r-y.”

“Ah the magnificent Henry, so talented, a true visionary!” You laughed, scooped him up and twirled him around, making him laugh and laugh.

“(Y/N) you’re so silly!” He shook his head at you, and in that moment you realized how this divorce would age him, make him grow up too fast. Already he sounded too old for his age.

“I know, but isn’t it fun to be silly sometimes?” You encouraged, gave him a friendly smile.

“Yeah.” He smiled back, giggled again when you went after him in a tickle fight.

* * *

You were putting away the paint supplies and Henry was washing his hands when there was a knock on the front door.

“That would be your dad.” You said, a bittersweet pang in your chest as you left the living room to open the door.

He looked awful, another long day at the courthouse. His eyes were red and glassy, like he had been crying. Charlie had always been a crier. 

“Dad! Look, I painted (Y/N)!” Henry bolted across the house, grabbed his painting and held it up proudly for Charlie to see.

“It looks just like her.” Charlie said with a big smile, before picking Henry up and kissing his cheek, asking, “How come you haven’t asked to paint me?”

“Because you’re not pretty like she is.” Henry wriggled out of his grip and ran back into the living room to collect his shoes.

“That’s not fair, he’s very pretty.” You deflected, trying to be lighthearted, trying not to think about the way Charlie looked at you. The way he looked at you _like that._

“He’s right – not like you are.” Charlie said, softly, so soft. A secret. “We gotta go, it’s almost time for dinner.” He said a little louder, making Henry groan.

“Aw, okay.” He reappeared, shoes on and painting in hand. He offered it to you with a, “Here.”

“For me? No that’s too good of a painting, you should keep it. That way when you’re famous one day, you’ll remember me.” You said, ruffling his hair once more as he wound his arms around you in a big hug.

“Okay.” He said, and something about the way he said that made tears well up again.

Charlie noticed.

“Henry, why don’t you go ahead home before it gets too dark?” Charlie asked, and Henry nodded. 

“’Kay, bye (Y/N)!” He bounded out the door, swinging his painting as he left.

“Bye Henry, see you soon sweetie.” You called after him, biting your lip.

The second Henry was safely inside his own house, Charlie closed the door and pulled you into a deep hug.

Finally, finally you could let the tears slip out, could feel the wetness from Charlie’s own eyes on your shoulder, against your neck as he held you, so tight.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You gasped, trying to get a grip, trying not to think about him going away, about him leaving, about never seeing him again. You tried not to think about Nicole, which made you feel awful, made you feel so gross, but you tried anyway.

“You want to know the worst part?” Charlie asked, muffled against your neck.

“What?” You asked, terrified, suddenly so afraid, feeling like you were falling like your whole soul was plummeting to the ground.

“If I leave, I’ll be so far away from you.” His shoulders shook, and you held him tighter.

“Oh Charlie.” You cried, and cried and cried and cried.

“For some reason that’s the thing that’s scaring the shit out of me more than anything else.” He said, hands gripping at your back, at your sides.

“I’m never too far away, not for you. You have to know that, Charlie.” You pulled away enough so that you could look into his eyes, see how deep and hurt and filled with pain they were.

“I’m an awful fucking person.” He cursed, but you shook your head, cupped his cheek.

“No you’re not. You’re just a man, who fell out of love with his wife.” You whispered, biting at your own lips to keep them from shaking.

“And into love with his neighbor.” Charlie responded.

He had never said that before, never, to you. You hadn’t even known…hadn’t even guessed, that he could have felt that way about you.

You had hoped, you had dreamed, but it had always felt like something out of a movie, something you didn’t get to have. You didn’t get to have him, because he was already had.

Except now, now he wasn’t.

“Henry wants a green kitchen.” You whispered, hiccupping, trying to reign it in. “Maybe, maybe I can come over one day. Help you paint it.”

“Please?” Charlie asked, and you nodded.

He held you tight, pressed the softest, most bare hint of a kiss to your cheek.

You turned into it, turned against his face, turned against his lips and kissed him back.

For the first time, you felt whole. You knew better.

Nicole was probably waiting.

“You have to go.” You cried, but he held you tighter, too stubborn.

“I don’t want to.” He admitted, and you held him back, pet through his hair. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“I know.” You kissed him again, sighed against his lips, “I know. But you have to.”

Charlie pulled away, looked at you. Really looked at you.

And then he kissed you once more, turned around, and left.

You didn’t know what the hell you were going to do, but you knew one thing for sure – you were tired of your kitchen being blue.


End file.
